


When Drummers Harmonize, or How Bob Got Patrick Laid

by calathea



Series: Hitting the Right Notes [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-05 01:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calathea/pseuds/calathea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob was never exactly certain how he and Patrick ended up sharing an apartment in LA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Drummers Harmonize, or How Bob Got Patrick Laid

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to miznarrator and doll_revolution for their help on this story.

Bob Bryar was never exactly certain how he and Patrick Stump ended up sharing an apartment in LA that summer. It seemed like one minute Bob was telling Gerard (who didn't care, and didn't even seem to be listening) that the only apartments left at the Oakwood were enormous, and the next minute Pete, who hadn't even been in the country at the time of this conversation, was on the phone telling him that Patrick was going to be his roommate.

"But--" he'd protested, since he'd kind of resigned himself to the trade-off between having a huge amount of space to himself and an equally huge dent in his bank balance.

"No, don't thank me," Pete had said, cheerfully cutting him off, before embarking on a long and involved story that Bob really couldn't follow about Pete's dog, a guitar, and Patrick's urgent need to find a place to live that wasn't with Pete. By the time Pete hung up, Bob had been too confused to make any further protest, and was left with the distinct impression that Pete thought he should be _honoured_ to share living space with Patrick.

When he finally made contact with Patrick a couple of days later (after having been told by a dozen people how _awesome_ it was that he and Patrick were going to live together) it seemed far too late to make any kind of protest, even when Patrick somewhat hesitantly asked if it was really okay, offering to find somewhere else if Bob wanted him to. Despite his doubts, Bob heard himself saying cheerfully that it would be _awesome_, and five minutes later he'd agreed a date for Patrick to move in.

He sat staring at the phone for a while after Patrick hung up, wondering if this was how Stockholm Syndrome worked. Still, he mused, how difficult could it be to live with one pocket sized lead singer in a large apartment after surviving a small bus with three normal-sized guys and Frank? Patrick had always seemed like a great guy when they'd hung out on tour, Bob was going to be recording most of the time anyway, and he could always go hang out in one of the other My Chem apartments.

It turned out though that even being parked one bus over at Warped really didn't prepare you for living with someone. Bob had a running tally of Things He Never Knew About Patrick Stump by the end of the first week, and a whole notebook worth of them by the time the summer ended.

His list started with the fact that Patrick really was just as musical as his press made him out to be.

This seemed kind of obvious when Bob thought about it, because it wasn't like he hadn't known going in that Patrick was the musical genius in Fall Out Boy. Not to take anything away from Trohman and Hurley or even Pete, but no-one who'd done Warped with Fall Out Boy was unaware of the contribution Patrick made to the band.

What Bob hadn't realized was what Patrick _being musical_ meant when it came to living with him. His first clue was the procession of Patrick's band-mates carrying Patrick's collection of musical instruments on moving-in day.

"What the hell-- is that a _zither_?" Bob said, disbelievingly, as Joe wandered past with his arms full. "Where do you even _buy_ a zither?"

Patrick flushed and toed the ground. "I, uh, borrowed it from a friend," he muttered, and went to help Pete arrange his guitars.

Joe frowned at Bob as he set the instrument down in a corner. "Dude," he said, disapprovingly, "Don't tease him about his zither."

Bob's eyebrows soared, but he said nothing further, and eventually Patrick's musical possessions (including the zither) were distributed around the apartment. At first, Bob, who himself owned a lot of drumsticks and a great collection of cymbals, was vaguely dismayed by the sheer _variety_ of Patrick's collection of noise-making devices. A few days in, however, Bob had realized that for the most part Patrick was remarkably quiet, instrumentally-speaking, unless he'd asked Bob first, and he was good enough with all of them (even the zither) that it was actually kind of fun to have him around.

The only problem was that Patrick's _other_ instrument was his voice, and he wasn't anywhere near as careful with how and when he used that. Patrick hummed constantly. Patrick sang snatches of song in the middle of conversations. Patrick sang along with his iPod when he was wiping the kitchen counter and with the radio in his car and MTV in the living room. He sang his own songs, he sang My Chem songs (which Bob felt disloyal for sometimes preferring to Gerard's version), he sang show tunes and Britney Spears and advertising jingles for hamburgers. Most disturbingly of all, though, Patrick harmonized loudly along with anyone else who was singing in the apartment. Even if the other person was singing Johnny Nash songs badly in what he, apparently incorrectly, thought was the blissful privacy of the shower.

Bob was towelling himself off, still singing, when he suddenly became aware of the voice accompanying him, muffled by the bathroom door. He stopped singing and, scowling furiously, wrapped a towel around his waist and threw open the door to confront Patrick.

Patrick was puttering around the living room, absently belting out the melody since Bob's voice had dropped out: "_I can see cleeeeeearly now the rain has gone_," he sang, snapping his fingers to the beat, "_I can see all obst_-ACK!"

He jumped about a foot in the air when Bob, still damp and shivering in the cool air, tapped on Patrick's shoulder. "Dude!" he said, recoiling, "I didn't hear you."

Bob loomed over him.

"What?" said Patrick, taking a nervous step backwards. "Is something wrong?"

He looked honestly bewildered. Bob frowned at him.

"What?" said Patrick, brow furrowing. "Did I leave stuff all over the bathroom?"

"Dude," said Bob, "You were _harmonizing_."

Patrick's brow creased more deeply. "Um?" he said. His eyes flicked over Bob's naked chest and towel before returning to Bob's face, and his cheeks began to go pink. "Oh. Oh dear," he said finally. "Was I singing along with you? Joe hates that too. Sorry."

Bob looked at him suspiciously. "You do it a lot then?" he said.

Patrick nodded. "Yeah, I... Well, you know me, I hear music, I have to be part of it," he said, sidling sideways towards his bedroom and away from Bob.

Bob watched him leave. "Just so you know, Patrick," he said, as Patrick reached his door. "The unspoken guy roommate code is that we all pretend that any noise we hear from the shower didn't really happen. We don't _harmonize_ to it."

Patrick stopped and looked over. "Uh," he said, and Bob raised his eyebrows at him. "Oh! Uh. Okay. Yes. Sorry. Sure."

His glance wandered down over Bob, and he flushed. "Sorry," he said again, and vanished into his room.

Bob laughed, and padded back to the bathroom. After that, he caught Patrick absentmindedly singing along to his shower songs most days, but after the first time, he decided he didn't mind too much. Bob was just starting, in fact, to come around to the point of view that sharing an apartment with Patrick was _awesome_, when he discovered that one potential downside to Patrick was that he had the _worst timing in the world_.

Andy Hurley was full of stories about Patrick's tendency to walk into rooms at the least opportune moment possible. Bob hadn't believed half of them, because surely no-one got as lucky as Andy made out he did, or was as unlucky as Patrick seemed to be, but he was still prepared for a few awkward moments. Bob didn't consider himself a prude though (which was fortunate, given that he sometimes spent weeks locked in a confined space with four guys who had very little shame and no idea what "personal space" meant) so he figured he could deal with a little bad timing from Patrick.

The first time it happened, Bob thought nothing much of it. The woman he was with, Kara, was still mostly dressed and Patrick's arrival back at the apartment had been far from stealthy, given he was humming loudly as he opened the door, and started singing the second it was closed behind him.

"_Fill my heart with song, let me sing forever more, you are all I long for, all I wor--_. Uh. Hi. Um. Sorry." Patrick came to a halt just inside the archway to the living room, blinked at Bob and Kara, turned, and vanished hastily into his room, almost tripping over an abandoned guitar case as he left.

His door clicked shut, and Bob heard Patrick's CD player come on before the sound cut off again, presumably as he plugged in his headphones.

Kara laughed. "Roommate?" she said, shimmying in a way that made Bob instantly forget the way Patrick's eyes had opened, wide and startled, and lingered over the two of them. "Nice voice. Sinatra, right?"

"Uh-huh," Bob said, and dragged her closer so he could press his lips to the curve of her stomach.

Patrick appeared at breakfast fully dressed, blushed at Kara when she wandered into the room, sat in Bob's lap and praised his singing, and took his bowl of cereal back to his room to eat. Bob just grinned.

The second time it happened, Bob was a little more embarrassed. By the time he and his date made it into the apartment Bob was already panting and their hands were fumbling at belts and zippers.

Bob banged the door shut as they came in, and then found himself shoved up against the wall in the hallway, his pants unbuttoned and out of the way. He gasped loudly at the first touch of lips against his cock.

"Bob, what the f-- Oh, holy fuck," Patrick said, appearing suddenly in the gloomy hallway from the direction of the living room. Bob tried to focus his eyes, but Simon, who probably hadn't heard, given that Bob's hands were caught in his hair, half-covering his ears, carried right on doing that thing with his tongue, and Bob gave up the unequal battle.

The slam of Patrick's bedroom door got through to Simon though, and he pulled off and looked up, his lips shiny in the dim light. "Roommate?" he said, half-laughing.

"Roommate," Bob agreed, and dragged Simon to his feet and into his bedroom.

Patrick didn't appear at breakfast at all the next day, scuttling out of his room and through the front door before Bob could even say good morning.

The third time, they were sprawled out on the living room sofa, Simon on one side, his hand stroking over Bob's thigh, Kara on the other, nibbling his earlobe, when Patrick wandered out of his room. Things were barely getting started, and only Bob himself was even partially undressed so Bob thought Patrick's yelp of surprise and the crash of his (fortunately empty) coffee mug onto the hardwood floor was probably unmerited. "Fuck!" said Patrick, his arms flailing wildly. There was a long moment while his mouth worked silently and his eyes, huge and startled, moved rapidly between the occupants of the couch. "I'm going to Pete's!" he said finally, before darting to the coffee table to grab his keys and almost running out of the front door.

"Bye!" called Bob, as the front door slammed.

Patrick turned up late the next morning looking exhausted and bedraggled, and for the first time, Bob felt slightly guilty.

"Rough night at Pete's?" he said, as Patrick peeked cautiously into the living room. Bob was alone, sprawled out on the couch watching cartoons.

"He wasn't home," Patrick said, sounding pissed, "And I didn't have my key to his place with me."

Bob sat up. "Where did you go then?" He frowned. No-one else much was in town this weekend from the two bands, except for Frank and Jamia, who had threatened to kill anyone who interrupted them before Monday.

Patrick scowled back. "I went to a diner," he said, "And then I went to a late movie, and then I slept in my car for a little while."

Bob sighed. "Oh man," he said. "I didn't mean to--"

Patrick waved an irritable hand at him. "Yeah, I know," he said, "Bad timing, it's my curse. Just ask Andy."

"Yeah," said Bob, and Patrick wandered away to his room. His stereo came on a few seconds later.

Bob probably should have felt worse than he did about unexpected eyeful Patrick kept getting, but he figured anyone who lived with Andy and Pete most of the year had probably seen all that and more. He did feel bad enough that he started trying to give Patrick a little more warning if he had a date, and Patrick obligingly vanished to Pete's for the night a couple of times. Then Simon got an acting job out of town and Kara went onto night shift at the hospital, and Bob was too tired from recording all day to make the effort to find anyone else, so the problem lapsed into insignificance.

Patrick's wide-eyed stare came back to him at odd moments, though, and Bob found himself noting that, for a talented, successful, albeit rather short, rock star, Patrick didn't seem to get laid much.

As far as Bob could tell, in fact, Patrick didn't get laid at all, which seemed like a shame, since, despite the bad timing and the fact that Patrick was one of the messiest people Bob had ever run across, he was still a pretty cool guy.

Luckily, once Bob noticed Patrick's problem, he was more than happy to help Patrick out. One of the best things about the Oakwood, as far as Bob was concerned, was the eye candy by the pool, and the wide variety of opportunities there were to meet people.

"They're porn stars," Gerard said idly from his seat in the shade as Bob's head swivelled to watch two women in the briefest of bikinis walk past. "I thought you said you'd given up on porn stars."

"So?" said Bob, grinning as one of them turned back and winked at him. "I'm looking for someone for Patrick."

"They're _porn stars_," Gerard said again, pointedly.

"So?" said Bob, watching the girl who winked walk away. "You think Patrick would say no to _that_?"

Gerard sighed. "I think Patrick would ask her why porn always has such terrible soundtracks. And then he would probably wander off and write a better porn soundtrack."

Bob stared at Gerard, and then shook his head. Patrick was kind of a dork at times, and more or less constantly music obsessed, but he was still a guy. "So, what? You think he'd prefer a guy?"

He'd been distracted the time Patrick had seen him with a man, so he couldn't really remember if Patrick had seemed more or less interested in the view. "I should ask Simon if he knows anyone."

Gerard sighed again, more loudly. "You should stay out of Patrick's love life."

"But he doesn't have one," Bob protested. "I just want to help with that.

Gerard shook his head, but said only: "I don't think Patrick wants that kind of help."

Bob later felt that maybe Gerard should have been a little more emphatic about it since this conversation led to his confirmation that Patrick really did have an anger management problem. In fact, for a little guy, Patrick could really punch.

"Ow," said Bob, fingering his jaw later, once they had righted the coffee table and agreed that Bob was going to pay for breaking the vase.

"Your own fault," said Patrick, and pulled his hat down further, hunching miserably into his jacket and rubbing his bruised knuckles.

After a long pause, Bob tapped his fingers on his thigh and said, "Was it really that bad?"

"You set me up with a porn star," Patrick said. "And told me she was a friend from out of town." He brightened up for a second. "We did end up talking for half an hour about the soundtracks they used on her movies."

Bob snorted a laugh, and then held up his hands in surrender when Patrick's hands fisted again. "Sorry," he said.

"Yeah, well," said Patrick, "Don't do it again. Please."

Bob nodded, and Patrick got up and walked away to his room, rubbing at his knuckles.

Bob really did feel bad about it then, and even worse when Patrick's other friends started to get involved. Bob had never been threatened by so many short and/or scrawny kids in his life as he was over the next few days.

"Why are you messing with Patrick?" Pete asked him when he swung by to pick Patrick up a couple of days later. "That isn't what I had in mind when I said he should share your apartment. Stop it or I'll kick your ass."

Bob looked Pete up and down and allowed a small smile to twist his lips. "Yeah?" he said.

"Don't think I can't," said Pete, and then turned to grin at Patrick when he came out of his room. Patrick looked enquiringly between them, and then smiled at Bob and offered to bring Thai food home in the evening. Pete rolled his eyes in the background.

The following day, Mikey took Bob aside. "Pete said you're being mean to Patrick," he said, seriously. "You shouldn't do that. Patrick's awesome."

"Uh," said Bob, "Okay?"

Mikey nodded, and wandered away to pick up his bass. He wasn't the only person to talk to Bob that day, but Bob didn't snap until Ray -- _Ray Toro_, who would rather poke himself in the eye repeatedly than involve himself in the emotional lives of his friends -- paused their video game and said: "You know, Patrick's a nice kid. You shouldn't be messing with him." before unfreezing the game and kicking Bob's virtual ass all over the screen while he was speechless and distracted.

He stomped back to their apartment and found Patrick strumming his zither and watching the Iron Chef.

"Hey Bob," he said, automatically getting up and putting the zither away. Bob slumped down onto the sofa and glared at the screen.

"What did you say to Pete?" Bob asked as the Iron Chef gave way to commercials while Patrick was carefully arranging his instrument in a corner.

"Uh," said Patrick, looking confused. "I don't know. I say a lot to Pete."

"What specifically have you said to Pete about me that would make him threaten to hurt me?" Bob asked. "Which he could try, by the way, but. No."

Patrick looked surprised, and hovered about uncertainly before sitting down as well. "Um, nothing. I told Pete about the porn star, but he just laughed himself stupid over that." He paused. "And told me I couldn't write a porn soundtrack. Or, well, I can, but I can't show it to anyone. Except him, obviously."

Bob laughed then sobered when Patrick continued: "And I told him about sleeping in my car that one time, but mostly because I was telling him about seeing the movie I went to. But that was a while ago, and he seemed cool with it. He gave me another key, since mine is... um." He waved vaguely in the direction of his disaster-area-slash-bedroom. "Other than that, I promise I've had nothing but good things to say about you."

"So why is everyone acting like I'm a Patrick-beating monster?" Bob said.

Patrick blinked at him and frowned. "Who was doing that?"

Bob ticked them off on his fingers: "Pete, Mikey, Gerard, Andy, Ray..." he said, "And that's before I get into the phone calls."

"Oh," said Patrick again and then paused. Finally he shrugged, looking embarrassed. "Well, you know, Pete..." He trailed off and looked expectantly at Bob.

"No, I don't know. Pete what? Pete is a psychotic elf? Pete's in love with you and he's defending your honour? What?" said Bob, exasperated.

Patrick blinked. "Well, you know," he said again, lamely.

"No! I really don't!" said Bob, forcefully.

Patrick looked uncomfortable. "Usually it's just a great answer when I really don't know what to say," he said, after a long moment. "You know, I say, 'well, Pete' and then stop and everyone fills in their own blanks. That's the advantage of him being Pete, really.

He stood up. "Sorry," he muttered, and shuffled his feet. "I'll tell Pete to stop it."

Bob leaned back on the sofa. "Okay," he said, and Patrick nodded, and headed towards his room. "Patrick?"

Patrick turned back with his hand on the door. "Yeah?" His expression was unreadable.

"Nothing," Bob said, after a moment, and Patrick nodded and closed his bedroom door with a soft click. Bob sighed, and tried to think of ways to show everyone -- including Patrick -- he wasn't actually the kind of guy who mistreated his roommates.

"Do you want to have a Fourth of July party here?" Bob asked at breakfast the next day. "We can invite everyone."

Patrick beamed at him, and Bob silently congratulated himself on his scheme. "Yeah! Cool!"

Patrick dragged him out late that night to buy inflatable cacti and food and drinks. "You'd think it would be cheap buying drinks for a bunch of straightedge kids and recovering alcoholics," Bob said, eying their cart. "But no, you have to buy eight different brands of expensive soda instead of one cheap keg of beer."

"At least we can make everyone just eat vegan," Patrick told him, as he pondered veggie burgers. He turned to grin widely at Bob. "These are the brand Andy likes." He held up a package. "What else should we get?"

Bob watched him drop them into the cart and wander off, humming along to the radio in the store. Bob wondered whether you could _really_ have an epiphany in a grocery store. Patrick knew what kind of soda Gerard liked to drink and Andy's favourite veggie burgers. Patrick would sing anything you asked him to and while he could play apparently every instrument known to mankind, more importantly he would _stop_ playing them if you told him you had a headache. Although Patrick's bedroom looked like a tornado had ripped through, he always stacked the dishwasher. Patrick slept in his car because he was afraid to walk back in on his roommate having a threesome and Patrick thought inflatable cacti were valid decorating choices.

Patrick was _awesome_, Bob decided, and suddenly, Pete's behaviour made sense -- or at least, made more sense than usual. Bob would probably be ridiculously over-protective too if his awesome best friend mostly only had good things to say about a roommate who chased him out of his own home with badly timed sex in their living room, laughed at him about his zither and tried to set him up against his will with a porn actress.

Bob resolved there and then to be nicer to Patrick, and maybe keep a closer eye on him.

Practically speaking, this turned out to mean that Bob spent a lot more time over the next couple of days appreciating the awesomeness of Patrick. Patrick made a terrible, cheesy disco mix for their party. ("It's not a Fourth of July party without a short period of terrible, cheesy music," said Patrick, calling up a file that Bob could _see_ was called 'Terrible Cheesy Music' on his laptop. "Of course, most of the music has to be good, because, hello, musicians throwing a party. But the terrible cheesy disco has to happen too." Bob was laughing too hard at the list of titles in the file to say anything). He bought avocados and made guacamole ("You can cook?" Bob asked, wondering why, if this were the case, they had been getting food delivered since Patrick moved in. Patrick looked at him like he was nuts. "No," he said, stretching out the vowel. "I can make guacamole. Pete kept buying these avocados when we were in like, I don't know, whatever state sells them, from these stalls, and saying we should make guacamole. Eventually I got sick of the like, stacks of avocados everywhere and actually made some. It's easy.") Bob even tried convince Patrick to let him listen to the porn soundtrack. ("Dude, no," Patrick said, looking mortified. "I'd have to. I had to use one of my vid-- that is, Pete said. I mean. It. I. _No_.")

At the party itself, Bob snuck away a couple of times to raid Ray's secret stash of alcohol, so he was pleasantly buzzed when the cheesy music mix came on. In the chaos, when everyone howled and several people were moved to attempt to dance, Bob had to hastily deny responsibility, pinning all blame on Patrick.

"Speaking of Patrick, where did he go?" said Joe, sprawling out on the couch next to Bob in order to spectate, leaning hard against him. He smelled of pot and sunshine, and he yawned while he asked the question.

"He was in the kitchen arguing with Frank about pizza," he said, "Trohman, I swear, I will push you off this couch if you fall asleep on me."

"Nuh-uh," said Joe, sleepily, "I was just in there. Bunch of people, no Frank or Patrick."

"Huh," said Bob, and he looked around. Even as he glanced around, he heard Frank's damned giggle from a corner, where he was flailing around apparently trying to demonstrate his disco moves to Jamia. She seemed unconvinced. "I don't know then."

Joe sighed. "Probably snuck off to his room," he said, tucking his chin down onto his chest. "Hey!" he protested as Bob dislodged him from his comfortable position leaning against Bob's arm by standing up.

Bob ignored him, and threaded his way through the crowds to the kitchen and then onto the wide balcony. No Patrick. Finally, he decided Joe, though more than half-baked, was probably right, and tapped gently on the closed door to Patrick's room.

There was no answer, so he opened the door, intending to just peek in.

Patrick had closed the blinds in his room to keep out the glare of the sun, so the room was dim, illuminated only by the glow of the computer screen Patrick was working at. He had his speakers plugged in and he was frowning intently at a combination of video and Garageband.

"Dude, is that your porno music?" said Bob, coming up right behind to look over his shoulder. Patrick yelped and spun around so fast he almost knocked his computer off onto the floor.

"Jesus, Bob," he yelped. "What the hell-- why are you creeping up on me?"

Bob ignored him, leaning forward to turn the sound up, fending off Patrick's hands when he would have closed the laptop. After a moment, Patrick groaned and flopped back in his chair. On screen, two guys writhed together to a trippy, syncopated rhythm.

Bob raised his eyebrows. "Cool sound," he said, and Patrick covered his face with his hands. "I see why Pete said you shouldn't show it to anyone, though. I didn't even know you liked guys."

Patrick's response was muffled. "Oh man," he said.

Bob laughed, and peeled one of Patrick's hands away. "Dude. Adorable though the bashful thing is..." He stopped. Patrick's other hand dropped away from his face and looked at him in surprise.

"Uh," Patrick said. "Have you been drinking?"

"Well, yes," Bob admitted, and Patrick's mouth closed with a snap.

"Oh," he said, sounding confused and Bob grinned at him.

"Doesn't mean it's not true," he added, then closed the lid of Patrick's laptop and pulled Patrick to his feet. "Come on, you're a party host. You can't hide in your room."

Several hours later, Bob collapsed on the sofa again with Patrick beside him, their apartment finally guest free. "The problem with having parties in your own place," Patrick said, kicking at an inflatable cactus, "Is the mess it leaves behind."

Bob grinned at him. "_You_ noticed the mess? It must be bad."

"Hey!" Patrick said, mock-indignantly, biting at his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing.

Bob smirked at him, and watched when Patrick's eyes dropped to his lips, to where Bob knew his lip ring caught the light. Oh! he thought, and yes, and he leaned in and kissed Patrick, swiping his tongue over the faint indents left by Patrick's teeth.

When he pulled back, he found Patrick was staring at him owl-eyed. "Dude," said Patrick.

"No?" said Bob, enquiringly. "'Cause, you know, you're kind of awesome. And you like guys."

Patrick blinked at him. "I... Are you still drunk?"

Bob laughed. "I wasn't ever _drunk_. Seriously, no?"

"Are you kidding?" Patrick said, and reached up to kiss Bob, guitar-calloused fingers tentative on his cheek and the back of his neck. After a few moments, Patrick made a little muffled greedy noise, and his hands grew less gentle and more demanding. Bob grinned into the kiss and Patrick flicked at the piercing in his lip in retaliation.

When Patrick pushed him down to lie on the sofa, Bob sank back without protest, only making sure that Patrick followed him down until they were sprawled out together, kissing lazily. Patrick hummed as Bob licked his collarbone and Bob smiled against his skin.

"My room's nearer," Patrick said between kisses.

"You can see the floor in mine," Bob replied.

Patrick pulled back. "You want to have sex on the floor?" he said, dubiously, "Dude. Hardwood floors."

Bob tugged him down again. "I want to have sex in the bed, I want to be able to walk to the bathroom afterward without standing on something."

Patrick sighed. "Do you think insulting my... yeah, okay keep doing that... insulting my house-keeping is going to get you laid?"

"Is it going to stop me getting laid?" Bob asked, his hands wandering pleasantly under Patrick's t-shirt.

"No, probably not," Patrick said, after a pause filled with heavy breathing, and Bob laughed, and kissed him again.

"Bedroom?" Patrick asked, when they broke for a breath.

"Yeah," said Bob, "You going to write us a soundtrack?"

"Maybe later," said Patrick, and let go long enough to stand up and offer a hand to Bob.

"Are your friends going to kill me?" Bob said, even as he reached out and allowed Patrick to tug him to his feet. "I'm pretty sure when they decided that you should live with me this wasn't what they had in mind."

He kissed the back of Patrick's neck as they stumbled towards Bob's bedroom.

Patrick turned around and raised an eyebrow at him. "You've met my best friend, right?" he said, "Little guy, likes hoodies? Knows I like drummers and blond guys and pierced lips? Loves to matchmake?"

"Oh," said Bob, and stood still for a moment while he thought about the call from Pete, about his musical room-mate and his terrible timing, and about the widespread threats of violence when Bob didn't get with the program. He thought about Pete Wentz organizing his love life, and while he did that Patrick disappeared into his bedroom.

He grinned, and followed Patrick into the room. "Awesome."

* * *


End file.
